


blues away

by holodne_cerce



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Angst, Love/Hate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 12:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18800494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holodne_cerce/pseuds/holodne_cerce
Summary: a context -  the latest news about julian's fight with neymar





	blues away

**Author's Note:**

> song: the weeknd - privileged  
> roger wittman - is or was julian's agent

when tuchel, swearing angrily and squeezing his shoulder painfully, pulled him back, away from enraged neymar, who was struggling in enrique’s arms, only one thought was pulsing in his head with red light. to break free by all means and knock out the teeth of this brazilian bitch, cling to his throat and squeeze to the crunch, breaking the larynx. to scratch out the bloodshot eyes, widened in a fit of frenzied. to bring him down and beat him up until all his insides turn into a bloody mess, to pull his ratty soul out of him. he doesn’t care what will happen next. he doesn’t think about the consequences at all.

but, fortunately, they don’t let him do this. fortunately, they are not forced to shake hands, gritting their teeth, and show repentance. julian’s ears and face burned. tuchel forcefully turned him around and pushed him toward the exit. this cur behind him again began to shrill insults after him, audible even through the frig in the dressing room. julian turned around, no longer thinking, and neymar would really be a goner, but tuchel reacted instantly: he grabbed julian by the elbow:

“take it easy. you completely went nuts!?"

what was next, julian remembers it vaguely.

//

“you’re crazy, messing with him,” roger says, when they sit over a cup of coffee in julian’s favourite cafe not far from champs de mars. he seems slightly troubled, there are creases at the corners of his lips. julian shakes his head and looks aside, at the street surrounding them, the spire of the tower that is visible against the grey sky. julian didn’t expect either sympathy or pity, but he hoped that at least someone among those who talked to him about his skirmish with neymar would think outside the box.

“you already have a precarious situation,” roger said, as always - no hints, no tact; conciseness, directness and consistency only, and draxler has gotten used to it — so, perhaps, it was better.

“this scum plays the god, thinks he’ll snap his fingers and the chief fellows will hurry up and arrange everything as he wants.”

julian spun a half-empty cup in his fingers. echoes of rage stirred up and fell silent. roger glanced at him anxiously, clearly not knowing how to react to the sudden aggressiveness of his always calm and benevolent protégé.

“you know, i understand you,” he laid his hands on the table. “it’s pretty unfair. but you’re an adult and you also understand everything, right? we all know what kind of power neymar has and how he can turn this power against anyone he dislikes. you need to talk to him. besides, you really started it first,” roger raised his palms. “he shouldn’t have reacted like that, but still.”

julian was silent.

“no one tells you to cajole him or to cosy up to him. but any reasonable person knows how to admit his mistakes regardless of others, so you won’t lose anything.”

“you don’t understand, roger,” julian breathed out and laid his head to his elbows.

 

‘cause i’m not gonna hold you through the night’

 

“julian, it may not end well,” roger’s anxious voice came from afar.

the first drops pounded on the wooden tabletop.

//

it was always like that, as julian remembered. he didn’t know what neymar was afraid of or what he lacked, that he always contorted everything he touched with love first, why the hell he had never learned anything in all twenty-seven years of his busy life. why the hell he never set others at defiance. people were leaving his life, but new ones always appeared, he could always find someone better — a friend, girlfriend, partner, agent, or club president. his loved ones spoke of neymar as of a man with a big heart and a sensitive soul, but it didn’t prevent him from being the greatest jerk of all who julian had only met.

 

‘and i don’t wanna hear that you are suffering, no more’

 

their gazes meet on training, and neymar squints, as if recalling where he had seen him before. julian still wants to punch him between the eyes. for abusing both of them. now he regrets that he didn’t provoke him earlier and lost so much time, falling for his sincerity - yes, his attitude was sincere, but what value did it have if it disappeared right away, it was only worth saying the word against him?

julian wants to rip his tongue out, but in fact only looks away and gets immersed in a conversation with marco.

//

too many events during recent weeks. too many bad things. it’s good that he can drive his anger away on neymar — julian squeezes his shoulders to bruises, rejoicing at his painful grimace, sharply dodges when neymar tries to bite his nose. neymar tries to break loose, hits his forearms painfully, when he manages to break free a bit, roughly pulls julian by the neck to himself, pressing their foreheads together. their squabbles are more like a rather ridiculous fight than sex - julian throws neymar to the wall, he cries out in pain.

“shut up,” julian hisses, stopping his mouth with his hand. and then abruptly sucks in the air and bends in half: neymar punched him with his knee into the solar plexus, clasped his free hands on julian’s neck, pulled down forcefully, using julian’s disorientation. julian coughed, grabbed neymar’s wrists. hatred and dull lust overwhelmed the mind, and neymar’s mouth, annoyingly flickering directly in front of his eyes, parted, twisted with anger, was only adding fuel to the fire. julian straightened abruptly and swiftly grabbed his tattooed tanned neck, kissed him, almost forcing him to open his lips, exhaled heavily as neymar’s hands pulled his head closer. behind the doors in the corridor someone abruptly called out, there was a tramp and then voices quickly talking. julian’s heart was pounding deafeningly inside his temples. they pulled back, sniffing hard and scowling at each other, with bitten lips and chins wet with saliva. light strips from the corridor make their way through the cracks in the doorway, and the voices of employees sound from afar as they rapidly jerk off each other, sloppily kissing and leaving bruises to each other - with their lips, fingers, knees, whatever they manage.

 

‘and imma fuck the pain away’

 

neymar breathes loudly, a painful grimace distorts his face gradually. he throws his head back, hitting the wall, the veins on his neck stretch, the skin glistens with sweat, he whimpers weakly - julian strongly presses his finger under his hip bone, squeezes his shoulder with his teeth.

he can’t really knock out his jaw, so he hurts him at least this way - in half with pleasure.

“fuck,” neymar exhales, choked up, looking out from under his eyelids. his stubble pricks, julian wants to break his neck at least for this, but instead he vindictively squeezes the last drops out of him. neymar has a warm, wet palm, a lazy languor in his eyes, but the same arrogant cheeky grin, and julian just kisses him again.

and he can do nothing more.

//

“i don’t give a damn what kind of shit you have in your life, okay?” draxler says. during the halftime against nice. “i fell for your huge teary eyes once, but won’t ever screw up like this again, is it clear to you? you are a selfish, narcissistic, hypocritical creature, i don’t know if this is your parents’ or coaches’ fault, or you were born this way, or society has made you like this, i don’t care.”

neymar - hands on his hips - looks at him frowningly, and at some point julian thinks that his face breaks from the inside under the yoke of these words, but it turns out to be just a play of light.

 

‘cause i held you down when you were suffering’

 

“maybe these constant injuries are truly a torment for you,” julian says, detachedly watching angel who’s enthusiastically arguing with marquinhos and bernat. he remembers helplessness. remembers the dizzying feeling of total lack of control.

“but you know, to be here all the time is also a torment. of another kind. during every loss, every failed match.”

neymar’s eyes are in the shade, he doesn’t see them, but it doesn’t matter. neymar’s eyes look daggers, it seems, a little more, and they will have to be separated again, but this won’t happen. julian is sure.

he has nothing more to say, and, to tell the truth, he doesn’t want to, the words bounce off neymar and ricochet somewhere into the wall, into the emptiness. neymar has kylian mbappé.

neymar has cavani. di maria, dani, messi, a bunch of other beneficial famous friends who are on the same level with him, who are good enough to be near him. neymar has meetings with will smith, pele, odell beckham and a bunch of other stars with big names, an infinite number of people who always win and succeed.

 

‘enjoy your privileged life’

 

maybe that’s why he forgot how to deal with people like julian draxler.

with ordinary people.

//

“who are you to tell me that?” neymar asks squinting, right into his face, with such bewilderment and disbelief, that for a brief moment julian is stitched by an instinctive child-like fright - he has gotten into a trouble, now he will be beaten up. neymar is shorter, but stares deadly.

“the only thing you do is pass back.”

the blush rushed into julian’s face, blinded him like a sudden blow, it became red and blurry before his eyes. the blood in his ears was roaring violently.

“maybe that’s why they didn’t score a second time,” he says, trying to maintain dignity in a crowded dressing room next to a man who, without blinking an eye, went into personals.

neymar grimaced, stepping closer:

“or that’s why _we_ didn’t score. although you can’t score, even being a meter away from the goal.”

julian jerked, grabbed him by the collar of his t-shirt, neymar reacted instantly: he squeezed his wrists, throwing him away with unexpected force, stepped back, watching every julian’s movement with glowing eyes. a bitch. a brazilian bitch, flashed through julian’s head, as they clashed together again, and around them a carousel of faces and voices began to spin. neymar had a lot to say to him. each word prompted julian to raise his fists and to hit until a bone shows up.

fortunately, they don’t have time to harm each other.

//

“fuck,” neymar says, wiping dried blood off his lip with his palm - julian cannot break his jaw, but he can bite his lip. can’t give him a black eye, but he can colour all his ribs. with fingers or lips, in the intended act of love, in fact - in the only possible way of expressing their mutual hatred.

neymar curses chokingly, looking around for his clothes, julian pulls on his jacket, remembering where he put his car keys and whether he took his identity tag to go directly to the camps des loges.

he’s partly curious how long this will last. rather, no, he wonders when neymar will get tired of it. because he has long been sick to death.

yes, he has the identity tag with him. he can stop by for some dietary rubbish at the nearest cafe, take a half hour walk around the city, and then go to the training straight off. sneakers have to be laced up again. julian gets up, straightening the folds on his jeans, remembers that he forgot his phone in the living room, comes back for it without taking off his shoes. neymar crawls out of the bedroom, glances over at him and disappears into the kitchen.

why was he allowing julian to be in his house, on his territory, knowing that the imprint would remain forever in these walls, on his bed? why did he always have a lot of people, music and light at home? what emptiness was he trying to fill? julian sincerely never cared. but he couldn’t help but think about it.

water was running in the kitchen, floorboards squeaked under the light ingratiating steps. it’s all so absurd, that only existentialist classics would be able to fully describe it - only time will tell how long they will pull the life out of each other, running in circles.

the rage that flared up suddenly in that skirmish had subsided long ago, and the only thing that julian now felt was a mixture of devastation and an even, like a winter field, sadness.

was it all really just about hate?

julian threw his keys up and went out into the courtyard, into the cool may weather, feeling (or wanting to feel?) the weight of someone’s stare on his back.

 

‘and i’ve got two red pills, to take the blues away’

//


End file.
